


Tokens

by DSEG



Series: Tokens 'verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Jewelry, M/M, Omega!John, Omega!Sherlock, Slow Burn, Victor Trevor is a dick, weird metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3236120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DSEG/pseuds/DSEG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is an accepted fact that omegas take pleasure, both emotional and physical from tokens.  There are numerous studies on how cost affects response, whether gold is the best material and whether tokens improve fertility.  It is as scientifically proven as any human instinct can be.  </p><p>But then, instincts don't always apply to Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tokens

It is an accepted fact that omegas take pleasure, both emotional and physical from tokens.  There are numerous studies on how cost affects response, whether gold is the best material and whether tokens improve fertility.  It is as scientifically proven as any human instinct can be.  

Sherlock knows this.  The relevant data, researched last year in preparation for his first heat, scrolls through his mind.  Metals, gems and beads provoke the deepest responses.  Shine a factor.  No apparent value difference between rings, necklaces, earrings, chains etc…  Tokens engender feelings of safety and familial or romantic love.  Increase dopamine and serotonin. Decrease blood pressure, may promote healing.

A black leather box as long as his forearm lies in front of him on the dining room table.  Father and Mummy are watching.  Their eyes feel like spiders on his skin.  Sherlock doesn’t want to open the box.

“Sherlock,” Mummy prompts.

Something very unpleasant is happening in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach.  It feels slimy, like eels in the aquarium.  After a long moment he reaches across the table and opens the hinged box.

One gold necklace.  Thick flat links march identically to an ornate clasp.  A bracelet and belly chain are identical but for smaller links.  Along the bottom of the box like an extended ellipsis are 10 gold ear studs.

“We’ll go and get your ears pierced next week,” Mummy says.  She is smiling, satisfied.  She has checked off another box in her mind. One omega son.  Born.  Weaned.  Walking.  Talking.  School.  Tailored uniform.  Private tutor.  13th Birthday Jewelry.  Check.  Check.  Check.  Check.  Check.  Check.  Check.  Check.

Father is impassive.  He doesn’t entirely approve of an omega son.  Omegas are emotional.  They are slaves to their bodies, caught in the mundane profanity of flesh.  Nevermind that alphas are too.

“Thank you Mummy, Father.”  Sherlock says dutifully.  It’s not worth making a scene today.  He just wants to get away.

“Put them on, dear,” Mummy says.  Her pink smile is skin deep.

“Later.  For the party.”  There will be a party.  All of Father’s associates and Mummy’s rich, bored friends.  All of the people who must be impressed.

Mummy frowns slightly but Sherlock is fast.  He snaps the case closed and darts out of the echoing room filled with nothing at all.  Up the stairs, past the painting of Aunt Olympia in all of her omega jewelry, down two halls and he’s safe.  His room.  No one but Mycroft ever comes in here and Mycroft is at university 2.3 hours away.

Sherlock puts the box on his bed.  It stands out starkly against the pale green coverlet.  Dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin.  He opens the box.

The necklace feels cold against his fingers.  Cold, hard, unforgiving.  Father.  It is shiny and cookie-cutter plain.  Acceptably normal.  Mummy.  There is no rush of serotonin.  His pulse neither races nor slows and the slimy feeling in his gut has moved up to the back of his throat.  There’s a sea monster in my digestive tract.

He walks to the standing mirror in the corner.  It’s half covered in a sheet that he was using to test the effects of various chemicals on sun fading in fabric.  Sherlock pulls the sheet free.

The boy in the mirror is gangly.  His limbs are too skinny; his curls are too long.  This isn’t a problem.  Adolescence does this.  He’s seen the pictures of Father and Mummy at school and they turned out alright.  The eyes, though.  The eyes are a problem.  Sherlock’s eyes burn back at him through glass and silver.  He closes them.

Eyes tight shut, he shrugs off his shirt.  Draped over his collarbones, the necklace presses chokingly against the base of his throat.  Sherlock opens his eyes.

Gold shines like swamplight against his too-white skin.  The sea monster inside him threatens to spill out all over the floor.  Sherlock whips the necklace off and throws it across the room.  It makes a dent in the plaster.

That night he wears the set to the party.  The chains drag on him like they have anchors.  When it’s over he puts the box into his new jewelry chest.  That, he shoves under the bed.  When Mummy tries to get him to an appointment for his ear piercing he spends the day out on the grounds cataloging maggots.  He brings them home and she doesn’t make another.  He never wears the tokens again.

*

Sherlock meets Victor Trevor on a sunny May afternoon in his first year at uni.  The meeting is brought on by Victor’s dog, a small, gemlin-ish monstrosity named Peony.  Peony takes an instant dislike to the passing Sherlock and bites him in the ankle.  Bleeding and irate, Sherlock comes face to face with her owner.  Sophomore majoring in Chemistry, smokes a quarter pack a day but would smoke more if he could afford it, parents divorced and bitter, no siblings, lived with father - no love lost there, left handed, serial mansturbator, likes to imagine a harem of omegas at his beck and call, alpha.

All of this he throws in the man’s face.  While his victim is still spluttering from shock, Sherlock stalks off.  He goes back to his room and takes samples of the dog’s saliva from his ankle.  Might as well make the best of things.

To Sherlock’s complete surprise, the man shows up at his door at 7:13 pm with a box of plasters and a bag of take out fish and chips as an apology.  Sherlock has never received an apology before.  Off guard, he lets the man in.

The man sets down the bags on his desk and sticks out a dark brown hand.  “Victor Trevor.”  Sherlock takes it and shakes.  “I’m so sorry about Peony today.  She’s quite the drama queen, I’m afraid.  How is your ankle?”

“Fine.”

Victor opens the brown bag and passes Sherlock a cone of chips.  “Eat before it gets cold.  How did you know all that this afternoon?”

“I observed.”

Victor smiles.  His teeth are very white.  Sherlock likes the contrast.  On inspection, Victor has very regular features.  

“That’s some skill.  What are you studying?”

Sherlock tells him.  Victor is pleased to meet another chemistry major.  He asks another question.  He eats up all his fish and Sherlock’s too when Sherlock only picks at the chips.

Victor is inquisitive, relatively intelligent and has a very sly sense of humor.  He is also arrogant and a little too full of alpha superiority but he seems to have categorized Sherlock as some strange intersexed creature.  He takes Sherlock seriously, and, shockingly, seems to like him.  He comes around again two nights later with homework and Chinese.  Shortly, he’s a regular installation in Sherlock’s little room.

 

Victor teaches Sherlock to smoke.  Sherlock teaches Victor to shoot cocaine.  Victor shows Sherlock the best places to find trouble.  Sherlock shows Victor how to blend in anywhere he wants.  Together they discover how much chaos two dedicated young men can find in London.

Spring passes and Sherlock’s quarterly heat comes around.  He is restless the day before, skin too tight and the air redolent with pheromones.  Victor notices immediately when he comes by.

“Don’t you suppress?”

Sherlock shakes out a fag and lights it.  “Why should I?”  
“Don’t most omegas nowadays?”

Sherlock sneers.  “Most omegas are idiots.  Suppressants dull the brain and slow reaction time.  One of the reasons that most omegas can’t serve in the military.  Idiocy.  Three days is an acceptable price for having my brain functioning the other 88.”

Victor laughs.  It’s a little strained, but Sherlock supposes it’s the pheromones.  Annoying.  

“Alright, ‘Lock.  Do you need anything?”

“No.  Why?”  He’s been taking care of his own heats since he was 14.  A knotting dildo and a few chemicals suffice very well.  

“What about tokens?  I never see you wear any.”

“Useless sentiment,” Sherlock says.  Chilly, choking gold.  

Victor scoffs.  “It’s not sentiment. It’s proven fact.  Omegas like shinies, especially around their heats.”

Sherlock glares.  “I don’t.”

Victor raises his hands in mock surrender and drops the subject.  They study a bit - mostly Sherlock helping Trevor along - then go out to the roof and smoke.

The next day Sherlock wakes up with slick trailing down his thighs.  He mixes a little cocktail of relaxants and injects himself before finding his dildo and settling in.  The drugs steal away the urgency of the heat.  He feels like a merman swimming through air.  The heat passes typically.   

 

Victor, however, is not typical.  His behavior changes after the heat.  He smiles more and touches Sherlock on the arm and back.  He avoids the clubs where Sherlock gets hit on.  When they’re high he quotes poetry.  His taste is good but the words twist up in Sherlock’s mind.  Something has altered between them.  There is a softness in the way he deals with Sherlock.  It’s abhorrent.

Sherlock fights back.  He’s acerbic as only he can be.  When Victor spouts poetry Sherlock spouts vitriol.  He makes a show of acting more alpha full of back-slapping and braggadocio.  Victor notices, of course.  Sherlock has never slapped a back before in his life.  Things strain like an old wood shack in the wind.

88 days pass.  Sherlock’s heat is approaching.  His skin is hot and he’s frenetic in Chem 230.  He’s getting damp.  Clearly he’s done for the day.  With a barely civil nod to Professor Higgs, idiot,  Sherlock takes his leave and heads back to his room.

Victor is sitting on his bed.

Slick is soaking through Sherlock’s pants.  His thoughts burn like moths.  “Victor?”

Victor smiles.  “I’ve come to help.”

“No.”  Sherlock stands in place and feels his wet channel flutter.  “I don’t need help.”

“Of course you do.  It’s ok to need help, ‘Lock.”  Victor stands and crosses the tiny room.  He smells too strong, too bestial.

Victor pulls an object out of his pocket of his black leather jacket.  It’s a silver jewelry bag.  Sherlock puts his hands behind his back.

“I brought you something.  Look.”  Victor’s fine, dark fingers untie the string and upend the bag.  A beaded belly chain slithers down into his palm.

Something strange is happening in Sherlock’s sternum and fingers and channel.  The chain shines under the flourescent light.  It’s silver and very fine.  The beads are just glass, silver, green and blue, but they look cool and smooth, like ice on a sweltering day.  Sherlock takes a half step forward.

“That’s it.  Isn’t it nice?  Take the chain, Sherlock.”

The room snaps back into focus.  Victor’s voice is sweet and low; the same tone he uses to talk to Peony.  His whole body is bent forward, coaxing.  A flash of fury is enough to push back the heat and the seductive chain.  

“Get out.”  Sherlock’s voice is poison.  Victor snaps upright in surprise.

“‘Lock…”

“Get out or I’ll tell everyone you attempted to coerce an omega in heat.”

Victor’s face twists, ruining the symmetry of his features.  “You’re not an omega.  You’re a goddamn amoeba.”  The chain stings his chest and lands on the floor.  “Too smart of the rest of us.  Too fucking cold to ever be human.  Fuck you, Sherlock.”  The door slams.

Sherlock stands perfectly still for two minutes.  He does not think of anything at all.  Then he goes to his chemistry set, mixes the relaxers and injects them.  Lost in his underwater world, Sherlock sees the heat through.  The belly chain remains on the floor.

It takes two weeks for Sherlock to find a large enough crucible and a hot enough burner.  He watches the glass beads bob in a sea of silver like floats.

*

John is small and blonde and omega.  His smile is deferential and his manners are impeccable.  He is also an ex soldier with fresh gun callouses and a psychosomatic limp.  Within two days of meeting Sherlock he has shot a man to protect him.  He is the second strangest omega Sherlock has ever seen.  He follows Sherlock into trouble with his steady legs and amiable smile.

John has tokens.  Correction - John has a ridiculous amount of tokens.  His right ear is pierced 6 times, though his left is not pierced at all.  Every week he changes out the studs.  There are six sets.  Gold (much like Sherlock’s and likely received at the same time).  Silver with garnets.  Dull titanium.  Tiny black seed pearls.  Patterned bronze (Afghanistan?).  And white gold set with sapphires.  The last is part of a set which also includes a ring and bracelet.  John wears them only once on a case that takes them to the opera.  Alpha woman of moderate wealth.  She was taller than John and enjoyed it.  Dull colored eyes.  She wanted to bond; John didn’t.  When Sherlock shares his deductions John goes quiet.

Other than himself, Sherlock has never met another omega so comfortable with his own sexuality and who cares so little what society thinks about it.  John neither hides nor flaunts his gender.  He is seemingly unconscious of the disapproval of his alpha sister and the whispers of Scotland Yard.  John also doesn’t suppress, even after leaving the Army.  He goes into heat a month into their cohabitation and quietly take himself off to an alpha’s apartment for three days.  He returns cheery, tired and covered in love bites.

There is never any discussion of tokens or why Sherlock sports none.  The yarders think it’s either that Sherlock is too good to act like a ‘real omega’ or because no one would give him any.  Much closer.  Lestrade assumes it’s some sort of empowerment thing.  Mrs Hudson thinks it’s a broken heart.  Molly occasionally tries to give him a handmade bracelet.

John says nothing, and as far as Sherlock can tell, thinks nothing.

 

The pool happens.  

Sherlock sees Victor overlaid on John for a moment.  The world tilts.  But it’s a trick, an illusion.  John is John.  He tears the semtex off John’s little frame and feels like someone is clutching at his lungs.  John should not be in danger.  Not like this.  

When it’s over, really over, they go home together.  John is quiet in the taxi.  He is looking at something his eyes can’t see.  Sherlock breathes deeply, taking in the tang of fear-sweat and John.  He’s never really noticed how good John smells.  Storms and Sunday breakfast and new-mown hay.

They settle in the living room, Sherlock on the couch and John in his chair.  John’s in his chair and all’s right with the world.  This whole night has been ridiculous.

“Are you alright?”  John’s voice is quiet.  He was angry earlier, but he won’t shout at Sherlock now.  Not now.

A shrug.  Is he alright?  There’s a sour taste in his mouth and his lungs still don’t feel quite right.  

 John gets up.  He sits on the sofa and pulls Sherlock’s feet into his lap.

“What are you doing?”

“Relaxing.  Shut up, Sherlock.”  One hand pats his feet.  John leans back and closes his eyes.  Neither of them move for 2.6 hours.  It’s the best Sherlock has felt in a long time.

The next week John breaks up with Sarah.  This is not a surprise.  He’s been emotionally distant with her for a month and they didn’t share his last heat.  Shamefully, it takes 6 weeks for Sherlock to notice the next step, or rather lack of one.  Proof, perhaps, that his investment in John is a little too deep.  John isn’t dating.  There is no flirting, no pulling and he isn’t even eyeing pretty alpha women.  As it is very handy not to have John mooning about instead of helping with cases, Sherlock keeps his observations to himself.  Helpful Johns are best left undisturbed.

  


When Sherlock wakes up after being drugged by The Woman, he’s wearing a leather wrist cuff.  It is an inch wide, black and stitched with small silver beads in a wave pattern.  Sherlock doesn’t rip it off for one reason.  It’s John’s.  It’s the one John had been wearing that morning.  When he brings it to his nose it smells very faintly of John’s skin.

The cuff feels good.  It’s warm and almost soft against his skin.  Wide leather braces his spine and silver soothes his aching eyes.  When he rubs a thumb over it his headache fades and his heart rate slows.  He does not take it off.  No one mentions it.

That night he puts his wrist on the table between himself and John.  John looks at the cuff.  Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“You were agitated.  It seemed to calm you down.”  John’s face is very still.

Sherlock doesn’t doubt it.  He unsnaps it and holds it out.  His fingers don’t want to release the leather.

John stares into his eyes.  Sherlock tries to make his mind as blank as new-fallen snow.

“Keep it,” John says.  He stretches.  “I’m off to bed.”

Sherlock still has his token chest.  It’s in the back of his closet under a bag of shoes for disguises.  It contains a leather jewelry box and a lump of silver studded with glass beads.  He does not drag it out.

Instead, he sits down on his bed.  Beds are lovely things.  Sleep isn’t really a priority in his life, but Sherlock is very fond of his bed.  No one bothers a person in a bed.  Its his domain alone.  He reads and researches and does occasional experiments in it.  It’s a retreat.  It is also obscenely comfortable.  When Sherlock does deign to sleep he’s sybaritic about it.

He lays down.  The sheets are cool and velvety smooth.  He holds the cuff up.  It’s weighty, solid, comforting.  John.  Very carefully he snaps it over his wrist.  Tight, but not too tight.  It was loose on John.  He wore it pushed slightly up his forearm.  The image sparks in Sherlock’s brain.  John’s strong tan arm.  The smooth leather.  The same leather against his own pale skin.  

Sherlock is warm and a little breathless.  He tucks the cuffed wrist under his cheek and goes to sleep.

Something has changed.  There is a small green plant growing in Sherlock’s heart.  It’s roots spell John’s name.  Sadly, it’s a little too late.

 

Sherlock carries the cuff with him through 3 years and 4 continents.  When he’s away it resides in his sock where no one would think to look for it.  When he sleeps it wraps around his wrist.  Some nights it even keeps the nightmares at bay.

It’s April when Sherlock returns to London, hot on the trail of Col. Sebastian Moran.  His exile is nearly over.  One more life and John will be safe.  Sherlock will be free.  

Ron Adair is shot in Mayfair.  It’s time.  He needs John.  Not true.  But it sounds convincing.

It has been a long three years.  Sherlock has learned a lot about people and a little about sentiment.  He doesn’t play any games with John.  A cab drives him to 221 B and he waits in the living room for John’s shift to end.  Very little in the flat has changed.  His violin is till under the window and the skull is still on the mantle.  The kitchen is clear, but then that was to be expected.

John’s steps are slow and uneven on the stairs.  The limp isn’t completely back but it threatens.  It has come and gone intermittently in his absence.  Like rain.  

John enters and takes off his coat.  It’s new.  The thigh-length brown leather is flattering.  John did not choose it.  Sherlock hopes Harry did.  Tired eyes look up.  John is in the middle of untwisting his scarf and he freezes like an absurd statue.  His eyes grow very wide and his face is milky.

“Hello, John.”  
Deliberately, John finishes untwisting his scarf and drapes it over his coat.  He comes in.  His feet are very steady.  Something glows in Sherlock’s amygdala.  He knows that it shouldn’t.

John stands in front of him.  He’s lost 3 pounds.  The bags under his eyes are deeper and there’s a new wrinkle between his eyebrows.  He’s been unhappy.

“Sherlock.”  He places a hand on Sherlock’s chest.  It’s warm through his silk shirt.  “You bastard.”  His voice is breathless, choked.  His eyes squint up and shine.  A drop of liquid travels down the side of his nose and trips onto his ugly tan sweater.  The tiny dark spot it makes is beautiful.

“I’m sorry.”  Sherlock has never said that before.  Not even after Baskerville when he felt it.

“You terrible fucking bastard.”  John collapses forward, pressing his face into Sherlock’s chest.  His nose presses into Sherlock’s sternum.  It feels perfect.  Sherlock fist his arms around John’s heaving shoulders and holds on.  

There’s shouting eventually, then explanations and devout apologies to Mrs Hudson.  She slaps his face.  Her handprint burns for an hour afterward.  Sherlock doesn’t mind.  The rooftop is explained, as is Moran and what has finally brought Sherlock home to London.  To John.

John is a tiny boiling pot of emotions.  He is: angry, sad, horrified, lost, joyous and even slightly sympathetic.  Not much, though.  He refuses to make Sherlock a cuppa.

When Sherlock finally goes to sleep that night it’s in his own bed with John’s cuff around his wrist.  He’s home.

Sherlock wakes to darkness.  Someone in the room.  Stay still.  His breathing is deep and even.  There is always a knife under his pillow.

“Sherlock?”

The tension uncoils all at once.  Home.  He takes a deep breath.  Storms and fry-ups.  John.

Streetlights illuminate very little of this room.  He turns, but John is only a darker patch in the night.  John creeps in, encouraged by Sherlock’s waking.  He stops by the bed.  Sherlock can see a stripe of his face in the light.  He looks hunted, hesitant.  It’s all wrong for his face.

“Can I…?”

Sherlock lifts the blankets.  John exhales shakily and slides in.  He stares into Sherlock’s face.  His eyes shine a little in the darkness.  Sherlock thinks there might be a metaphor there, but he’s too tired to chase after it.  John is here.  That’s enough.  

“Sleep, John.”  Sherlock closes his eyes and takes John’s hand in his.  It is small and warm, a microcosm of John himself.  Sherlock drifts off.  

When he wakes again, John is stroking the cuff.  He is lying on his back with Sherlock’s arm across his chest.  His eyes are closed but he is awake.

“Hello.”

“John quirks a smile.  “Hello to you too.  Breakfast?”  
“Dull.”

John laughs a little and sits up.  “For you, maybe.  Some of us live on something more solid than adventure.”  He gets out of bed.  “Come and have some toast at least,” he shouts as he walks away.  He doesn’t mention the cuff.  Sherlock can’t decide if that is bad or good.

Breakfast is acceptable when there proves to be honey for the toast.  They eat and plan.  They still work so, so well together.

Moran is caught.  Moriarty’s web is finally destroyed for good.  Sherlock moves back into 221 B.  He officially comes back from the dead with Mycroft’s smug aid.  The press goes wild.  Lestrade refuses to speak to him for a week.  Life goes on.  Sometimes John is withdrawn, but on the whole he is much calmer than Sherlock had expected.  

 

One morning, three months after he has moved back in, Sherlock wakes on the couch covered in notes detailing native British plant venoms.  There is something on his stomach.

It’s a jewelry box.  It is small, square and tan.  Ring case.  Too small to be anything else.  Not high end but not corner store quality.  Department store?  Online purchase?  The sofa has turned into a water bed beneath him.  Everything is uncertain.  He opens the box.

The ring is thick, well-suited to his long fingers.  It is dark grey titanium with a silvery band in the center.  When he touches it, the center band moves, sliding smoothly under his finger.  It is neither ostentatious nor subtle.  Sherlock slides it onto his left middle finger where it fits perfectly.

The ring is from John, obviously.  No one else could leave a gift on his stomach while he slept.  Just as obviously, it isn’t one of John’s collection.  This was bought for him.

By John.

John has given him a token.

It is conceivable that the ring is a sign of friendship.  It’s uncommon but not unheard of for friends to give tokens.  He and John have always been unusually close.

It doesn’t stand up to logic, though.  It’s too significant.  If John had meant the gift casually, he would have given it himself over dinner some night.  Really, he wouldn’t have given it at all.  John isn’t the type.  If John gives a gift it is weighed and measured and carefully fitted to the receiver.  John would never have given Sherlock a token in friendship.  

And.

John’s face when he saw Sherlock back from the dead.  John’s hesitant voice that night.  His warmth up against Sherlock’s side.  The way John touches him in passing now to reassure himself that Sherlock is present and tangible.  Making Sherlock’s favorite foods to ‘feed him up’.  Staring at random moments with a strange light in his eyes.  This is not friendship.  

Sherlock spins the ring’s shining center.  He likes how effortlessly it moves.

John’s ring.  That has a very pleasing sound to it.  I’m wearing John’s ring.  

Lying to yourself is a pointless business.  Sherlock knows this.  It’s half of the world’s stupidity wrapped up in one simple concept.  He has not lied to himself about how he feels toward John.  Not since the pool.  He hasn’t acknowledged it either.  

John is straight.  He likes alphas.  Female alphas at that!  Sherlock has never seen him with a beta.  Certainly not with another omega.  Sherlock is as far as one can get from John Watson’s type.  He has no curves and no knot.  The question is, does it matter?  Only John can answer that.

Sherlock gets very little done that day.  An experiment on stinging nettles is utterly ruined by inattentiveness.  When he tries to make himself a cup of tea he nearly sets the kitchen on fire.  Giving it up as a bad job, he retires to his room.  A German treatise on criminal psychology distracts him for 43 minutes before he gives that up too.  Sherlock pulls the cuff out from under his pillow.  He puts it on.  

What will John want?  Sherlock has no precedence for this.  Is John’s interest romantic?  Likely.  But what does that mean?  He knows what Sherlock is like.  Will he expect him to change?  Should Sherlock try to ape an alpha?  Will he want sex?  If so, how can I, another omega, fulfill his needs?  Sherlock knows that there are multiple acts that they can engage in, but are they enough?  And what about heats?

Sherlock lies in bed and frets while the sun climbs and sinks.

The front door opens and shuts.  Steps leap up the stairs.  John is excited.  They stop in the living room.  There is a moment of silence.

“Sherlock?”

His extremities are cold.  There is a curious prickling along his scalp.  Sherlock gets up and walks to the door.

“Sherlock? Are you home?”  John’s voice is uncertain now.

Sherlock presses his forehead against the woodgrain.  It’s John.  John is worth anything.  He opens the door.

John turns.  He’s wearing the blue jumper that Mrs Hudson bought him.  It brings out his eyes.  He knows this.  It’s the jumper he wears when he wants to make an impression.  His gaze falls to Sherlock’s hand, still sporting both ring and cuff.  A smile breaks across his face.  It is as good as Sherlock’s first dawn back in London.  Worth it.  

“John.  You’re home.”  He tries out a smile.  John’s falters.

“Don’t sham, Sherlock.”  John’s mouth turns down and that new frown line, the Fall Line, appears over his nose.  “If you don’t like it…”

“I do!”  Too emphatic.  “I do.”  He tries to sound sincere.  It must work to some degree because John is relaxing again.  

“Come here.”  John settles on the the sofa and gestures Sherlock over.  He sits, spine erect. “Ok, let’s try to figure this out.  Do you like the ring?”

That’s easy.  “Yes.”

“You don’t mind that I bought you a token?”

“No.”

John takes a breath.  “Do you understand what it means?”  
“It means that you want to pursue a romantic relationship.”

John giggles than stifles it.  “Sorry, sorry.  The way you put things.”  He shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

“I’m wearing your token.”

John sobers.  “Yes.”  He takes Sherlock’s hand and smooths a finger over the ring.  “Does that mean you’re interested?

“It means I accept.”

“Ok.”  John examines his face.  “That’s supposed to be a good thing, you know.”  

“It is.”  But even Sherlock can hear the hesitation.

“What?  Tell me, Sherlock.  I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Sherlock thinks back to another voice.  “I’ve come to help.”  Oddly, this is reassuring.  John is nothing at all like Victor.  It’s ok to let John help.

“What do you expect from me?  I am completely different from anyone you’ve pursued before.  I don’t know what you anticipate from our relationship.”

“Ah.”  John sits back more comfortably and tugs Sherlock with him.  He leans into Sherlock’s side.  It feels nice, but Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with his free hand.  It settles lightly on John’s knee.  John breathes deeply and seems to be searching for words.  Gazing frankly into Sherlock’s eyes, he begins.  

“I don’t know as I expect anything.  There are some things that I hope for, I suppose.  But you don’t have to do anything special.  I like you as you are.”  His eyes fall.  “I love you as you are.”

There is something very large in Sherlock’s ribcage.  It might be that little John plant, except that it has grown too big.  It’s a great oak pressing out against Sherlock’s chest.  It throbs in time with his heart.  

“John.”  I love you.  “John.”

John smiles one of his rare full, delighted smiles that wrinkles up his whole face and makes his eyes gleam.  He squeezes Sherlock’s hand.

“I hear you.”

As good as this is, and it is so very, very good, it doesn’t answer Sherlock’s questions.

“Do you want sex?”   

Apparently, this is too abrupt.  John startles and his eyes go a bit wide.

“Do you?”

Sherlock scowls.  “It is very unhelpful to answer questions with questions.”  
John sighs and pats his hand.  ‘You’re right.  Yes, Sherlock, I would like to have sex with you.  I would like to cuddle and go out to dinner without a case on hand and sleep in the same bed.  Eventually, I would like to bond with you.  Those are the things that I want, though, and it’s ok for you to want different things.”

This is a lot of information.  Sherlock goes quiet and still, thinking.  A bond.  He wants a bond.  No one has ever wanted that with me.  Can two omegas bond?  He doesn’t know.  Do I want to bond?  That answer is swift and decisive.  Yes.  I very much want to bond with John.

“Can omegas bond, John?”  If he ever knew, he deleted it.

“Yes.  So can alphas.”

“Oh.  Good.”

“Good?”

Sherlock realizes that he hasn’t actually answered John’s declaration.

“Yes.  Yes to everything.  I want that with you.  Should we start now?”

John laughs.  It’s like honey pouring over bread.  “No, I think we had better start slow.  How about a kiss?”

That sounds very good.  Sherlock leans forward so quickly that John rears back in alarm.  After a moment of fumbling they sort themselves out and John’s lips are on Sherlock’s.

Soft.  Like Grandmere’s roses.  The tree in Sherlock’s chest expands.  Maybe it’s really a dwarf star.  He winds his arms around John.  John’s small, strong hands card through his hair.  They kiss and kiss and kiss.  It’s the best day of Sherlock’s life.

 

   

  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> AN: There may be more in this verse in future. The idea of bejeweled Sherlock just makes me too happy.
> 
> On bonding - I am going with the idea that anyone who goes into heat or rut can bond. This the only pairing that couldn't would be beta/beta.
> 
> This is based off an Avengers kink prompt here: http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/18271.html?thread=42833759#t42833759 I just had to steal it for Sherlock. 
> 
> If jewelry amuses you, here is Sherlock's gold chain:  
> http://www.kingice.com/king-ice-8mm-gold-cuban-curb-chain.html  
> And titanium ring:  
> http://www.justmensrings.com/Titanium-Black-Wedding-Band--JT0004_p_358.html
> 
> Unbetaed and unbrit-picked. Feel free to point out mistakes.


End file.
